Francis Duggan Poems

You never hear Johnny say life is unfair
Though for years he has been battling his black moods of despair
His mental illness has ruined his chances of becoming a father or having a wife
He has not what you would call a near to happy life
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I am from the fields where the waterways meet
The green countryside near the town of Millstreet
In Claraghatlea from here far away
I first looked on the bright lamp of day
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A fact of life with us that remain
Somebody's loss becomes others gain
Though many with what i say may disagree
This is how life is and will always be
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This one known as the supreme being a lot of trouble create
In the name of God so much violence and murdering and hate
Because of so called religious people many good people have died in the cruelest and foulest way
Lives lost in car and suicide bombings one hear of in the news every day
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Such beautiful weather for late Autumn and May
In the blue and sunny sky just a few clouds of gray
Of a cool though a very mild coastal breeze
And the wild birds are chirping on the bushes and trees
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I was only a five years old boy in nineteen fifty one when the Mother and Child Bill of Dr Noel Browne
Due to pressure from the hierarchy of the Roman Catholic Church in Ireland went down
Which brought about Browne's resignation as Minister for Health which to history now does belong
Though in trying to financially help single mothers for to raise their children he had not done anything wrong
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For many years i have been a rhyming buff
A fellow who has penned a whole heap of stuff
The rhymes that in notebook every day i write down
Is never in hope of money or literary renown
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Where Finnow the white river to the Blackwater flow
In the fields where the rushes in clusters do grow
Where it has flowed forever it babbles on slow
In the home to the badger, the rabbit, the hare and gray crow
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The gift of love in a person live until she or he does die
And that you are never too old for to fall in love is surely not a lie
The gift of love to it does not have an age it belongs to old and young
Of love poems and stories written and of love songs are sung
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Of Seasons long gone and of the what used to be
We only have in us an aging memory
At the stroke of midnight the past will be today
And the clock on our lives does keep ticking away
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